Chapter 67 67: Moaning Myrtle[1]
The echoes of their frantic breathing slowly faded into the damp air of the abandoned bathroom. Minerva remained draped over the cold stone sink for a long time, her chest heaving heavily. For the first time in over four decades, she felt the terrifying, exhilarating weight of simply being a woman. The iron-clad persona of the Deputy Headmistress had been peeled away, leaving only skin, heat, and a lingering, bone-deep ache that radiated from her core.
Ethan leaned against the tiled wall, casually watching her. He reached out, running a hand through her disheveled hair, untangling the last remnants of her severe bun. "You survive that, Professor?"
Minerva let out a long, shuddering sigh, finally pushing herself up. She looked at him, her eyes dark, hooded, and entirely free of their usual strictness. "I believe 'survive' is the correct term. I feel as though I've been caught in a localized hurricane, Mr. Williams."
Ethan chuckled, his eyes drifting down. Despite the intense release only minutes ago, the "Adamantine Focus" and the sheer visual of the half-naked witch in front of him had an immediate effect. His dick stirred, thickening and pulsing back to full, rigid attention.
"Well, the hurricane isn't quite over," Ethan murmured, taking a step forward and gesturing to his stiff length. "I think the Professor needs a second period of instruction."
Minerva's eyes widened, her gaze snapping down to his crotch. She let out a small, disbelieving laugh, holding up a hand to stop his advance. "Ethan... we cannot. As much as my... baser instincts might demand it, I cannot stay. I have been away from the for far too long. If someone comes looking for me..."
"Let them look," Ethan argued, reaching for her waist.
Minerva stepped back, shaking her head. "No. I must return. There are many things that needs to be done under my supervision." She saw the annoyance flashing in his eyes and reached out, her fingers gently tracing the head of his cock. The contrast of her cool touch made him hiss.
"I am sorry," she whispered, her Scottish accent soft and apologetic. "But do not fret, Ethan. The party will end. And we still have the entire night before your 'countdown' finishes. I will make this up to you. I promise."
Ethan sighed, looking down at his agonizingly erect dick. "So, what am I supposed to do with this in the meantime? Just tuck it i?"
Minerva offered a rare, wicked little smirk. "I am sure a Master of the Mystic Arts can manage his focus for a few hours."
She turned away, finally looking down at the state of her emerald silk dress. It was a disaster—torn down the middle, soaked, and wrinkled beyond belief. She retrieved her wand from the floor with a flick of her wrist.
"Reparo," she murmured. The torn silk snapped back together seamlessly. "Tergeo. Scourgify."
In less than a minute, the dress was clean, dry, and perfectly draped once more. She gathered her hair, twisting it back into a slightly looser, but passable, bun. She took one final look in a cracked mirror, ensuring the flush on her cheeks wasn't too suspicious, before giving Ethan a lingering, apologetic look.
"Until tonight, Mr. Williams."
With that, she turned and walked out of the bathroom, the sharp click of her heels fading down the corridor.
*****
Ethan stood alone in the dim, dripping bathroom, staring at the closed door. His dick was still fully erect, throbbing with unresolved tension.
"Did I just get cock-blocked by a staff meeting?" Ethan muttered to himself, running a hand over his face. He grabbed his trousers from the floor, preparing to painfully tuck himself away.
But as the silence of the abandoned room settled in, a new sound caught his attention.
It was incredibly faint, masked by the dripping of a leaky copper pipe. Ethan paused, his enhanced senses stretching out. It wasn't the wind. It was rhythmic. Wet. And it was accompanied by a soft, breathy sound.
A moan.
Ethan's brow furrowed. He was supposed to be alone in this part of the castle. He moved silently, his bare feet making no sound on the damp tiles as he tracked the noise. It was coming from the very back of the room, near the final row of stalls—the ones that sat over the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.
The moans grew clearer. They were high-pitched, desperate, and distinctly female.
Ethan reached the last stall. The wooden door was slightly ajar. He didn't bother knocking; he kicked the door open, ready to confront whatever student had decided to use the haunted bathroom for a tryst.
"Who's there?" Ethan demanded.
He froze.
There was no student. Floating about two feet off the ground, right above the toilet bowl, was a translucent, pearlescent figure. It was a girl, looking no older than fourteen. She had thick, square glasses, a sullen face, and her hair was tied in two messy, translucent pigtails. She was wearing the standard, ghostly projection of a Hogwarts uniform...
Except from the waist down.
The ghost had hiked her spectral skirt up around her waist. Her translucent legs were spread wide, floating in mid-air, and her ghostly fingers were buried deep between her own spectral thighs, moving in a frantic, blurry rhythm.
She was fingering her ghostly pussy, her face twisted in an expression of intense, ethereal pleasure.
At the sound of the door crashing open, the ghost's head snapped up. Her ghostly fingers stopped dead. Through her translucent body, Ethan could literally see the plumbing pipes on the wall behind her.
Their eyes locked.
Ethan realized immediately who it was. The glasses. The pigtails. The bathroom.
Moaning Myrtle. The girl who had been killed by the Basilisk fifty years ago.
Myrtle stared at him, her mouth dropping open in a silent "O" of absolute horror. She looked down at her hand, still hovering near her spectral crotch, then back up at Ethan, who was standing there half-naked with a massive, raging erection pointing right at her.
The silence in the stall was deafening, broken only by the drip, drip, drip of the sink.
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